


baby when you hold me, i'm yours

by TheEagleGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake Dating, Post War, all those annoying suitors--leaf sansa a loan! - Freeform, alternate future au - Freeform, as he should be, in a canon setting - Freeform, robb is KITN - Freeform, theon didn't abandon robb - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 02:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15038453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: Officially, Lord Harry has come to discuss trade routes with her brother. Unofficially, Sansa has a sinking feeling that he’s come for more than that.~Also known as: the fic where Sansa enlists Theon's help in getting rid of her pesky suitors.





	baby when you hold me, i'm yours

**Author's Note:**

> Day one prompt for asoiafrarepairs week: fake dating

Officially, Lord Harry has come to discuss trade routes with her brother. Unofficially, Sansa has a sinking feeling that he’s come for  _ more _ than that. Their marriage was never consummated, but she recalls with no small measure of discomfort that it had never been annulled by a high septon, either. 

“Lady Sansa,” he says, at the welcome feast, capturing her hand and pressing a kiss to it smoothly. If she were still a child, she would have been bewitched by the shine to his eyes, his perfect hair and the cut of his bow to her. The woman that she’s grown into distrusts these things however, and she cannot bring herself to greet him warmly. 

“My Lord,” Sansa replies, curtsying. 

“Has it only been two years, my lady?” Harry asks, pressing a kiss to Sansa’s hand. She extricates her hand as fluidly as she can, and he continues. “You’ve grown more beautiful than I could have ever dreamed possible.” His eyes take in all of her, all that would be decent to look at in such company. “I daresay you must have grown into the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros.”

Compliments such as these used to excite her, make her flush. Sansa simply presses her lips together in a small smile and thanks him. She begs her leave from him when Robb stands, inviting them to their seats.

“You were married to  _ that _ ?” Theon asks under his breath, when Sansa takes her chair at the high table. Theon’s hair, unlike Lord Harry’s, is unkempt, the dark locks curling onto his forehead. When he grins, Sansa fancies he looks a bit wild, like the pirate he used to pretend to be when they played as children.

“Don’t remind me,” Sansa replies, mouth twitching. She enjoys when Jeyne seats her next to Theon, but she mustn't laugh, not during Robb’s toast to peace. “He used to look down at me,” she tells Theon, “back when he thought I was simply Alayne Stone. He didn’t make it to my chambers after the wedding because he was visiting his mistress’s.” Petyr had played a part in keeping him away. She shakes her head disbelievingly. “Now that he knows I’m the King in the North’s sister, I’m suddenly the most beautiful woman in the realm.” 

Theon leans forward in his seat and grabs his goblet. “Well, Harrold Hardyng is an idiot, then,” Theon says simply. “You were always the most beautiful woman in the fucking realm.”

Sansa really has to keep from laughing then. Somehow, Theon’s blunt words have her feeling better than Harry’s insincere compliment. She’s warm inside and flushing deeply by the time he’s done drinking. 

That night, Theon asks Sansa to dance twice, each time when Harry strays too close. When Sansa begs off, he follows her to sit back at the high table, a human wall of intimidation against Harrold Hardyng’s advances. 

When she sees the simmering exasperation on Harry’s face, Sansa almost forgets that she’d been dreading tonight. Theon has a way of doing that to her. 

  
  
  


“You do still go hawking, don’t you?” Harry asks her, during supper in the king’s solar the next week. Robb and Queen Jeyne turn expectantly to Sansa, and she stiffens. 

“I do not get much time for it, Lord Hardyng. I help the queen run Winterfell, after all, and leave the hunting to those more skilled than I.” 

Robb raises his brows. “We can organize a hunt,” he offers, and Sansa wants to smack his arm. He’s not  _ helping _ , damn him. “There is good game in the Wolfswood this time of year.”

Sansa tries to gently steer her brother away from that idea, but even Jeyne, bouncing little Ned on her knee, shows delight at the idea of fresh mutton on the table. In just a few minutes, Robb is calling over his steward, the plans for a hunt already begun.

  
  
  


Sansa swears that the gods enjoy watching her suffer. Why else would her horse, gentle and sweet, throw her shoe and buck so violently when the only man near her is Lord Harry? Jeyne Poole immediately bursts into tears when Sansa tries in vain to calm her horse, but it is no use. It’s only when Lord Harry dismounts and catches the reins that her mare quiets, and Sansa slides off immediately, legs wobbling. 

“Lady Jeyne?” Harry begins, catching her elbow before she falls, “would you go find one of the King’s guards and let him know we need assistance?”

Sansa’s breathing is ragged and uneven, but she didn’t spend years learning to control her emotions in King’s Landing to allow a scare like this to phase her. In the span of a few breaths, she is almost calm, and the ground no longer spins under her feet. 

“Are you alright, my lady?” Harry asks, and Sansa nods, hating that she needs the hand holding her up. He should not be touching her this way. It’s not proper…

_ You are married to him, _ a vicious voice whispers, even though she  _ knows _ it’s unconsummated, annulled when she went North by the septon in the Eyrie. She’d been uncomfortably examined by an aging maester, confirmed a maiden, and packed on North by Littlefinger, who’d promised her that her marriage wouldn’t be a problem, that Ser Harry would be dead at the hands of the Lannisters before Sansa even arrived at Winterfell.

Another one of Littlefinger’s lies, Sansa supposes, though she  _ is _ happy Harry survived. Not happy that he’s here, perhaps, but she’s never wished death upon him.

“I’ll be fine, thank you.” She extricates herself from his grasp, and takes a deep breath. The way he looks at her makes her uncomfortably aware of their relationship, their married-not-married status. 

“My lady,” Harry begins. “This is perhaps a bit forward of me, but I--” he pauses, wets his lips. “Would you allow me to call on you? I know, given our history, it is a bit unorthodox, but after seeing the woman you have become I find myself hoping for a chance to get to know you better.”

Sansa had  _ known _ . She had known that the moment he’d be left alone with her he’d ask her to call on her, or bring up their failed marriage.  _ I cannot leave Winterfell _ , is her only thought. 

“My Lord,” Sansa begins, panic in her throat. She’s only glad he approached her before Robb. Robb wouldn’t force her into anything, she knows that, but he’d ask her to  _ try _ , for the continued peace in between their kingdoms, to give Harry a chance. She’d give in, if her brother  _ asked _ . “I cannot. I have a previous entanglement.”

She has no idea where the words come from, only that it is too late to take them back. Lord Harry’s face shows surprise, before it shutters. 

“I see,” he says, stepping away, stroking her horse’s flank. “To whom?”

Sansa’s mind races, but she is used to thinking on her feet. “Theon Greyjoy,” she says, as easily as she can manage. The only man who would play along with her farce. The only man who she--but she forces that thought away. “Theon is courting me. I’m sorry, my lord, it would not be proper.”

Harry’s smile is forced, but he manages one, and nods. “I see. My apologies then, my lady.”

Sansa almost reaches out, but is saved by Jeyne tripping back through the trees with a guard...and Theon himself. It is then that Sansa realizes what she’s said, who she must engage in this mummer’s farce in order to keep Harry away. 

  
  
  


Theon laughs in Sansa’s face when she tells him.

Sansa waits patiently. After years of knowing Theon, she can wait him out.

“You’re serious?” He wheezes, when he’s caught his breath. Sansa’s face heats, and she tries her very best to not turn right around.

“You were the first name I thought of,” Sansa admits quietly. She can’t meet his eyes. 

Theon’s face changes. “I’ll help,” he tells her. “Of course I will. Anything.” And then he grins crookedly. “Be careful, though. Women have been known to fall madly in love with me.”

Sansa raises a brow at him. “I’m always careful,” she promises. It feels like a lie.

  
  
  


Sansa has had to deal with many hard truths over her short life. When she’d been a child, her mind had tried to protect her. Lie to her. She takes pride in being truthful with herself now, if not always with everyone else. It’s why she has to admit to herself that she’d not pulled Theon’s name from nowhere, and that telling Harry that Theon was courting her came from a place of wishful thinking rather than an easy lie. Because it  _ isn’t _ easy, now that Theon has thrown himself into the role of her suitor. Her stomach flips when he smiles at her, when he offers his elbow to her in the gardens. She giggles at his whispered jokes, blushes at the bawdy ones. If Sansa is being truthful with herself, she’s felt this way about Theon since Robb’s army took back Winterfell, since Theon had kept her safe from Petyr’s men. It’s not that Theon is safe, exactly. It’s that he’s different. He’s blunt and swears and grins too much. But he’s not a liar, and Sansa’s had enough of liars to last a lifetime.

Gods, she wishes it were real.

The thought startles her at first, before she catches Theon looking at her one night, a puzzled expression on his face. It’s almost as though he’s trying to figure her out. Unbidden, Sansa’s heart lifts, before she quashes the hope down. 

_ I’m Robb’s little sister, he thinks of me as a child still, _ Sansa tells herself. This ruse serves a purpose, and it serves it well enough. Harry still stands too close to her, still asks her for turns around the great hall whenever there’s dancing, but he’s nearly  _ gone _ and it’s nearly over. She can handle her unwelcome attachment to Theon when Harry’s gone. She’ll put space between the two of them and it will be as though nothing ever changed. 

Still. Sometimes, the way he looks at her...she can almost believe he wants her too.

_ This was a bad idea _ , Sansa admits, over and over and over. 

  
  
  


“May I have this dance?” Theon asks, the night after the men from the Eyrie have departed. Sansa turns, a smile on her lips, her heart squeezing painfully.

“There’s no music,” she tells him, laughing. “And we’re in the glass gardens, not the great hall.”

Theon steps closer, his roguish grin already in place, but there’s a fond look on his face Sansa hasn’t seen before. “Indulge me,” he says, reaching for her. 

Sansa, heart in her throat, meets him halfway. His embrace is warm, and Sansa doesn’t feel as though she has to struggle out of it. It’s nothing like the way Harry’s arms had made her feel. 

“Is this a Northern reel we’re dancing to?” She asks, lips quirking. “A Southron waltz? Perhaps one of those Dornish dances where the partners practically fuse together.”

“I’m particularly fond of those,” Theon jokes, before his face sobers. His eyes flick down to her mouth, then back up to hers, almost too fast for her to be sure. 

“You would be,” Sansa tries to tease, but her voice is too soft. 

“Sansa--” Theon starts, but she doesn’t know what he wants to say because then his lips are on hers, light and insubstantial as a feather.

“I’d like to court you,” Theon whispers, breath mingling with hers. Sansa’s eyes close, and all she can feel is  _ him _ , the breeze slowly tugging at her hair, his hand cupping her face. 

Sansa can’t resist. “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?” She asks, lips brushing his. Theon huffs a laugh.

“I’d like to continue courting you, then,” he amends, before pulling away. Sansa opens her eyes, dizzy over him. “Will you allow me to?”

“Yes,” she says, and it couldn’t be more perfect. “But only if you kiss me properly.”

And so he does.

**Author's Note:**

> hey, if you liked this fic, please leave a comment! they feed my tired, aching soul, and motivate me to continue writing! you guys are the best!


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